


Decameron

by AnnaFan



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Fourth Age, Gen, Soap Opera
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23617156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaFan/pseuds/AnnaFan
Summary: What do we need right now?  A fourth age soap opera!  Men, Elves, Dwarves and of course Hobbits.  Friendship, family, love, lust.  Intrigue, skirmishes, espionage.  Adventure on an epic canvas.  And hobbits on a (modest) quest.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Éomer Éadig/Lothíriel, Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 27





	1. A Hobbit sets out on an Adventure

Our tale begins, as all good tales should, with a hobbit who was about to set out on an adventure. Now, hobbits are home-loving people, who tend to have adventure thrust upon them, rather than seeking it out. But in this respect, Ruby Fairweather was a somewhat unusual hobbit. Perhaps this stemmed from the fact that she was from Buckland, and as all Shirefolk from the other side of the Brandywine know, Bucklanders are a bit odd.

Ruby was the eldest daughter of a farmer and his wife whose farm lay on the narrow strip of land between the Brandywine and the Old Forest. Her elder brother Percy was a solid, sensible hobbit of 45 summers, well past his tweens and even the somewhat flighty, hedonistic years of the late thirties where many hobbits had come of age but not of sense. In truth Ruby found him a little dull. Her younger brother Tobias was a harum-scarum youth who (the older hobbits in the neighbourhood agreed) was generally in need of a firm hand and some hard work to settle him down. Her younger sister Gentian was scarce out of the nursery (in Ruby's opinion), being a mere 16 years old.

Ruby had witnessed the scouring of the shire and been at one and the same time terrified by it, but strangely stirred. She had been most taken with the sight of magnificent, mail-clad hobbits wielding swords and sounding horns – though perhaps not taken in quite the same way as so many of the hobbit maids of her generation. Rather than swooning at the thought of their fair faces and bravery, she found herself fascinated by the promise of adventure and a life beyond the normal confines of the Shire which their appearance seemed to betoken. They had clearly seen great things and done great things, and Ruby found herself with a yen to follow in their footsteps.

However, dreams rarely become reality, and Ruby might have had to content herself with listening at second hand to the tales of the ring bearer and his companions, never getting her own adventure. But two events conspired to tip the scales in her favour. The first was the discovery that her friend Daisy's father having died during the lean times when the Shire was run by Sharkey's men, that Daisy and her mother were now trying to make ends meet by recourse to the age-old Buckland craft of lace making, and were looking for new markets. The second was her foolish younger brother getting himself into trouble.

She and her father found themselves accompanying Tobias to Brandy Hall, for a hearing with the Master of Buckland. Tobias had got himself involved in what he thought was simply a scheme to shift sheep around the shire to make (so he claimed to believe) the best use of available pasture, but which had turned out to involve a mixture of rustling and tax evasion. Father and daughter had pleaded for clemency for a first offence, and in the end Tobias had been fined (which his father had reluctantly paid) and bound over for the next year, having promised he would work as the family saw fit on their farm, or on family errands.

After the hearing, Ruby took to wandering the garden. The fine, though not punitive, would put a sizeable hole in family finances for the coming year. How on earth had her brother been so foolish? She took a willow switch and set to knocking the heads off dandelions. Thus engaged, she didn't hear footsteps behind her, and was quite taken aback to hear a voice. She jumped and turned to see none other than Mister Meriadoc Brandybuck (in tweeds, rather than armour).

“I believe,” he said, “We are distant cousins. What brings you here?”

Blushing somewhat (for she felt the shame of her brother's actions somehow attached to her name as well) she found herself telling Merry the sad tale. And from there, she moved onto the general topic of how hard life had been under Sharkey (and how grateful she was that Merry and his companions had released the shire from bondage). And then to how many people had been hard hit by the difficult times, not least her friend Daisy and Daisy's mother.

And then, finally, encouraged by his gentle questioning, she hesitantly raised her hankering for adventure. 

“But I suppose you must think it most foolish. After all, I'm only a girl, and a girl not long come of age,” she said, her voice taking on a sad note.

“Nonsense. Age doesn't matter – after all my cousin Pippin wasn't much older when we left the Shire with Black Riders at our heels.” He gave a shudder, and a dark shadow passed across his face. Giving his head a slight shake he continued. “And being a girl doesn't come into it either – the bravest person I met was the lady who let me ride behind her saddle into battle – and she killed the king of the Black Riders, too.”

He paused for a moment, thoughtfully. “I have an idea. Come to the hall for second breakfast tomorrow, and bring some of Daisy's lace work with you.”

He held out a hand and took hers, giving it a firm shake. Then he watched her as she left the garden to find her father and ne'er do well brother. With a faint smile he returned to his own rooms, where he pulled an old wooden chest from under the bed. Within it lay an elven cloak, a long dagger, long enough to serve as a small sword for a hobbit, and a quite beautiful horn. He ran his fingers across them thoughtfully. Perhaps a journey was in order.

Several hundreds of miles to the south, the woman who had given him the horn prepared to go on a journey of her own.

~o~O~o~

_So, the idea behind this is that it's a 4th age soap opera. It'll just ramble a lot of the time, but tick off pretty much all of our favourite characters, with a host of other characters, many lifted from some of my previous stories. Every so often we may even stumble upon a plot arc by accident._

_The chapters will be short, because I'm aiming for frequent updates, at least weekly and hopefully sometimes twice weekly. Because I'm aiming to entertain and distract and give everyone a bit of pointless frivolity to take their mind off stuff._


	2. Farewell to the Golden Hall

“Are you nearly ready?”

Éowyn looked up from the collection of trinkets she was sorting through, and saw her brother standing in the doorway.

“Nearly. Berngyth has finished packing my clothes, Cynefrid has organised all the spare tack for the horses, and my swords and knives, and the bags are ready to be strapped to the pack horses. I am just going through some odd bits and pieces. I hadn't realised how many trivial things I had in the bottom of chests.”

“My sister admits to owning trivial things!” exclaimed Éomer, laughing. “You'll be painting your face and putting silly little ornaments on your dressing table just like a Gondorian matron before you know it!” 

Éowyn shook her head. “Some of it is worth keeping – hair pins and brooches that belonged to our mother, and a pair of toy horses – one carved by you, one by Théodred – which were my childhood toys. And some carved yule decorations. A shawl our nursemaid wove for me. I want memories of the Mark when I go to Ithilien.”

“You are still sure about this, sister? He wooed you in such haste, when you had but lately been near death, and...” Éomer's voice tailed off, unwilling to finish the sentence.

“ _Near death and despair_. Was that how the sentence was to end?” Éowyn got to her feet and stepped over to where Éomer stood, taking his hand in hers. “You are still worried I may have chosen for the wrong reasons.”

Éomer looked at her intently, unable to speak.

“Do not fear, brother mine. For I do honestly love Faramir. It took me a long time to realise it, but yes, I have chosen what is right for me. But no choice in this world is without some trade, some loss to balance the gain. I gain the man I love, I lose my childhood home.” She paused, gazing up into his face. “You of all men should know this. You gained a kingdom, but only by loosing those of your kinsmen you loved most dearly. And now...”

“Don't, Éowyn.” Éomer's voice tailed off.

Éowyn looked at him steadily. Over long years in Meduseld, she had got used to watching people closely, reading from their faces the things they could not put into words, sometimes understanding what moved their hearts even before they themselves realised it. Her brother was no exception. It wasn't that he didn't want to talk about it; it was that he could not. Instead, he turned to the other matter, closest to him, which had been nagging at him.

“If I were still just a Rider, even a Marshall of the Riddermark, I would have the freedom to marry as I wished. But now I must choose not just a wife, but a queen. And that makes me the worst sort of bastard imaginable.”

“I spoke with Edith this afternoon.” Éowyn let go of his hand and half turned to look through the window towards the distant mountains. Some things were best said not face-to-face. “She understands. She is sad, of course, desperately sad. But she understands. She too knows that choices come with consequences.”

Éowyn moved back to the table, and continued to sort through the collection of trinkets, placing them into the small wooden chest. It was a beautiful thing, carved with running horses and a knotwork pattern of swirling loops and lines which wove in and out of one another, waxed so that the grain of the wood glowed, and fastened with beautifully intricate hinges and clasps. Éomer knew it to be a bride gift, commissioned by Legolas the Elf and Gimli the Dwarf. Legolas had supplied the wood to Master Wulfram, the foremost wood carver in the Mark, and Gimli's craftsmen had made the metal fixings.

He walked over and placed his hand on her shoulder.

“Let's talk of happier things. We have a whole journey to the City of Stone ahead of us. You are pleased with your other bride gift?”

“The mare? She is lovely. You can see her bloodlines – sound limbs, strong back, elegant neck, not a flaw in her. Perhaps when she comes into season I can see if Windfola will cover her.”

“Well, you need to take some good breeding stock to Gondor with you – improve their lines. Who knows, maybe you'll be doing a bit of that yourself in the not too distant future.”

“Éomer!” His sister pretended to be outraged, and punched him in the arm. 

He bent and dropped a kiss on her head. “And now I must go and make sure that everything I need for the journey is packed.”

“Eomer?”

He paused in the doorway. He knew that tone of voice. His sister was about to pay him back in kind for the gibe about breeding stock. “Talking of breeding stock… You know all the young fillies of Gondor will be paraded in front of you, don't you?”

Eomer snorted. “I suppose a foreign bride would at least stop any infighting between my own nobles. Not that I relish the prospect. But needs must.”


	3. A Ride on the Beach

While Éomer talked to his sister about her forthcoming marriage, and tried not to talk about his own emotional turmoil, on the other side of the White Mountains, down on the coast of Gondor, another brother and sister were similarly engaged in trying to bring comfort, while not re-opening old wounds.

~o~O~o~

“I saw you playing with Elphir this morning.”

Lothíriel turned to see her brother Amrothos, smiling at her, but cautiously. 

“He is a lovely child. And I need to learn to face life, not feel a pang of regret all the time.”

“So – come riding with me. We can even take your mangy pigeon if you want, so long as the bad tempered bugger doesn't take a chunk out of me.” Amrothos still had not forgiven Lothíriel's Harris hawk for taking a bite out of his finger.

This earned him a rare smile. “Rustroviel and I would be delighted to accompany you.”

The sun was heading towards its midpoint when the two of them set off, Amrothos on his destrier Nightswan, and Lothíriel on her palfrey Seamist. The two of them made a handsome sight – good riders both of them, upon elegant, finely bred horses. Lothíriel wore a leather gauntlet, with Rustroviel perched upon her wrist. They rode in silence for half a mile or so along the strand, staying close to the waterline where the sand was firmer.

Eventually, Amrothos broke the silence.

“So, we ride to Minas Tirith next week.”

“Yes, brother. Despite everything, I am quite looking forward to it.”

“Enough to shed your widow's weeds?”

Lothíriel shook her head sadly. “No. Firstly because it would not be fitting – it is as yet less than a year since Barahir fell upon the Pelennor. And… other losses. And secondly because to be honest, I do not want to. I wish to fade into the background, unnoticed, at social gatherings. And simply be happy that cousin Faramir is happy. Tell me, brother, what is his shieldmaiden really like?”

Amrothos grinned. “Very beautiful – exotically so, with hair the colour of wheat. Faramir is a lucky bugger.”

Lothíriel gave a quiet snort at this – not quite a laugh, but almost there, Amrothos thought, with a spark of hope. Encouraged, he pressed on. “Very fierce, of course. She gave him quite the telling off the first time they met, apparently.”

“Is it true, as rumour has it, that he kissed her in public, upon the walls, for all the city to see?”

“I was at Cormallen at the time,” Amrothos said. “But yes, it would seem so.”

Lothíriel made a noise almost like a laugh, and Amrothos felt his heart lift. “And him always so reserved with strangers. Funny what love will do.” Then her smile faded.

Amrothos reined in his horse. “I'd take your hand if you weren't holding that bloody hell-hawk. I'd like to say 'it'll get better' but I'm not sure it will. Or if it does, how long it will take.”

“I know it seems odd to people, because it was an arranged marriage,” Lothíriel replied. “Well, arranged in a way. Uncle and father offered me the choice of three nobles in outlying lands whom it would benefit Minas Tirith to be tied more closely to. And I was able to meet them, and choose the one I thought best suited. Barahir was clearly a good man, and handsome.”

She paused for a moment, and Amrothos watched his sister. “The first time we met… not, not the first, for that was at a court function in Merethrond. The second time. He took me riding upon the Pelennor. And I could tell from the way he talked to his grooms and his squire that he was a kind man. A decent man. And I did honestly come to love him. And he me, I think.”

“Brave, too, by all accounts,” Amrothos said. Normally he didn't probe too much when Lothiriel talked of her late husband. He had got into the habit of deftly changing the subject. But today he did not; in an odd sort of way he felt encouraged by the subtle shift in Lothiriel's tone as she spoke of him. Almost as if in the more distant past – a grief observed, rather than a grief keenly felt. Amrothos felt able to continue. “When I was back in Minas Tirith I made a point of looking up his commanding officer's dispatches from the aftermath of the siege. He died buying time for a group of his soldiers to storm one of the enemy's siege engines.”

Lothíriel nodded. “His commanding officer sent me a very kind letter. How he found time to write between the siege and setting off for the… the Black Gates, I'll never know. But he did. And it means a lot to me. I heard later his CO died at Morannen.”

“Oh for Tulkas sake, Lothi, send the hell-hawk to chase some gulls and let me give you a hug.”

~o~O~o~

While Amrothos comforted his sister, three hobbits on their quest made their way west on the road, past the Old Forest and the Barrow Downs, towards the town of Bree and thence to the Greenway, which had once been the great road south.

~o~O~o~

_Thank you so much for the comments and kudos so far. Shameless plea: I love feedback. They make me (and every other author on this site) very, very happy. Also, if you want to follow this, remember you can hit the subscribe button so you don't miss an episode._


	4. At the Sign of the Prancing Pony (Again)

When Lothíriel returned from her ride, she found her sister-in-law, Vilwarin, waiting for her. Vilwarin had an appointment with her dressmaker, and wanted Lothíriel's advice in choosing suitably fashionable gowns for the trip to Minas Tirith and the various courtly balls and soirees the trip would entail.

Unbeknown to the three women, some several hundred miles north of Dol Amroth, the answer to the prayers of every seamstress in Gondor, and the trickle which would eventually turn into a deluge which would take the fashionable world by storm, was setting out from Buckland. Merry's business proposition to Ruby had been a simple one: they should combine her friend Daisy's genius for lacemaking, Ruby's yen for adventure, Merry's general feelings of boredom since returning from his quest, and (using Merry's fortune to bank-roll the trip) take samples of lace south to Gondor to see if they could open up a new market for the lacework.

There was, mercifully, no need to avoid the road, so the hobbits did not have to take to the Old Forest and then brave the Barrow Downs. Instead, they set out to take the quickest route they could to the town of Bree.

~o~O~o~

Nob, the stable hand of the Prancing Pony, looked up from where he was sweeping the yard. Three hobbits, four ponies. From the Shire by the young lady's accent… For a moment he had an odd feeling of deja vu. This feeling was compounded when the hobbit bringing up the rear of the party swung himself down from the saddle, then pushed his hood away from his head, to reveal Mr Meriadoc Brandybuck.

“Hullo, Nob. Good to see a familiar face. A room for myself and Mr Toby here, and a second – the best you have – for Miss Fairweather here. And stabling for the ponies. Is Mr Butterbur in the taproom?”

“Yes, Mr Brandybuck, Sir. I'll see to the ponies straight away, and get your luggage sent to your rooms. You get yourselves inside out of this cold wind, and get yourself a bit to eat. You must be right sharp set – it's well after tea time.”

Merry ushered his travelling companions through the stout oak door that led from the ostler's yard to the taproom. The room was as busy as always – a warm fug hanging beneath the beams of the ceiling, a collection of men propping up the bar, a couple of tables of hobbits sharing the gossip and a tankard of ale, a third table of dwarves.

“Why, bless my soul, if it isn't Mister Brandybuck!” Butterbur exclaimed, wiping his hands on his apron. “And who are your good companions?” 

“This is Miss Fairweather and her brother, Master Toby Fairweather.”

“Delighted to meet you. But a public bar's no place for a lady – would you not rather I prepared a private parlour for you.”

“That's a very kind offer, Mr. Butterbur,” Ruby replied. “But, since we hope to see if we can engage a guide for the next stage of our journey, I fear we must stay in the public bar. Perhaps that rather quieter table, in the bay window overlooking the street?”

“Right you are, miss. What can I bring you to eat?”

“What's good tonight?” Merry asked.

“Well, Mrs. Butterbur's got a rather fine pea and ham soup on the go, with freshly cooked barm cakes. Then there's a right good pheasant pie, or a spot of roast pork if you'd prefer. Or an ox-cheek, carrot and ale stew.”

The three hobbits ordered their food, and a tankard of ale for Merry and two mugs of small-beer for the Fairweathers (Toby wanted ale, but his elder sister wouldn't let him), then they retreated to the relative quiet of the bay window.

The meal was excellent. They finished it off with sticky toffee pudding then settled down to plan what came next. Merry cast an eye around the room, and his gaze finally settled on a cloaked and booted figure in a recess near the fire place.

“Just a moment, I'm going to see if that chap is what I think he is…”

“What would that be?” Ruby asked.

“He has the air of a Ranger about him. And we need a guide if we're going to head south into the wilderness.”

Merry made his way over to the alcove. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ruby watching his progress.

The Ranger was clad in a faded, mossy green cloak which was drawn tightly around him, hood down low, shading his face. Legs, clad in well-worn brown leather breeches, and equally aged (but well maintained) boots, extended from beneath the cloak. One hand rested on the arm of a carved chair. The other held a tankard. The hands were surprisingly small, with almost delicate looking fingers.

“Your health sir.”

Merry's opening gambit gained an acknowledgement, but didn't open a conversation. The Ranger nodded his head in answer, but maintained his silence. Nothing daunted, the hobbit tried again.

“Could I get you a top-up of your ale?”

The Ranger shook his head.

“I don't suppose you'd mind if I sat down, sir? We've ridden a long way today.”

At this, the Ranger lifted his hand from the chair arm and gestured towards the bench on the opposite side of the alcove. Merry took a draft of his ale. This man was proving a tough nut to crack. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing; somehow Merry felt that a taciturn man was likely to know his business. One didn't want a frivolous, talkative sell-sword, after all. A dour, focussed attitude was surely more fitting in this line of work.

Suddenly Ruby appeared at his elbow. She smiled at the cloaked figure, then sat down on the bench beside Merry.

“What Mr. Merry is trying to say is that we are three hobbits undertaking a long journey, all the way to Gondor, and we are looking for a guide. You struck us as the sort of person who might be a Ranger, and who would be interested in accompanying us. I hope you won't be insulted when I say we have a modest sum of money at our disposal to pay for your services.”

Finally, the Ranger raised a hand to the hood of the cloak and pushed it back. 

“I might consider it if you can persuade your friend to stop calling me 'sir'.”

Both hobbits boggled. The Ranger was a woman – youngish, dark haired, with the high cheekbones and prominent, slightly hawk-like nose Merry had come to realise was typical of Númenóreans. 

“Inzilbeth, daughter of Halbarad, at your service,” the woman said.

“Halbarad…” Merry paused for a moment. 

“Yes, my father was one of King Elessar's comrades. He fell on the Pelennor.”

“I'm sorry for your loss,” said Ruby, politely, twisting a handkerchief between her fingers with a slight air of embarrassment. Condolences to middle aged hobbits who had lost their kin at a ripe old age after a life well lived was one thing, but this seemed altogether another matter.

“Thank you,” said the Ranger, with a nod of her head. “Now, to business. What business have you in Gondor, and how do you intend to travel?”

“Well, Miss Fairweather here is seeking new markets for her friend's business – her friend is a lacemaker. Finest Buckland lace,” Merry explained.

“Makes a right lovely decoration on a night dress or a wedding dress, or just a dainty corner on a pocket handkerchief if your budget is tight,” Ruby added.

“Not something I've ever considered in much detail,” Inzilbeth said, dryly.

“So we have a pony with samples on to show off to some of the seamstresses and merchants in Minas Tirith. And I'm going along just because… Well, if truth be told, I'm finding the Shire a little bit dull. And I fancied seeing if I could get to Minas Tirith, if not in time for the Lady Éowyn's wedding, at least in time to give her my best wishes.”

“And what route were you thinking of taking?”

“Well, last time we went through Moria,” said Merry, with a shudder. “But seeing as how Saruman is no more, we thought maybe the gap of Rohan.”

“Hmm, possibly. The Dunlendings still haven't been completely subdued. It will not be a journey entirely without peril, even in these times of peace,” the Ranger explained.

Ruby looked a bit rattled at this. However, before she could speak, she was interrupted by a kerfuffle from behind her. Her brother had got to his feet, taken three steps, tripped over a chair leg and fallen to the floor.

“Oh Toby! I told you to stick to the small beer,” she said, in tones of irritation.


	5. Trade and Treaties

As the hobbits engaged the services of a Ranger of the North in Bree, in Gondor, the wife of another Ranger of the North found herself adjusting, slowly, to a very different sort of life to the one she had known before.

The balcony outside her chamber was rapidly becoming one of Arwen's favourite places. She still felt keenly the lack of greenery within this city of stone, the absence of the graceful trees of her home in Rivendell, the lofty mallorns of her grandmother's domain. But the balcony overlooked a sizeable courtyard which served as – what was that Haradric word Estel had used? - a veritable oasis amid the city of stone. The courtyard had a cloister round it, elegant double pillars leading to graceful pointed arches, with tracery which almost mimicked the branches of trees. And within the square they encompassed lay a garden. It was cool, bright spring morning, and Arwen relished the signs of new life in the garden. The maple was beginning to unfurl coppery leaves, delicate, many fingered fronds. A bed of azaleas brought from the mountain slopes round the sea of Rhun two generations of Men distant (in the time of Steward Ecthelion) put forward bright blossoms. Roses were showing bright green new leaves, beds of lavender tentatively emerging with pale green leaves. The magnolias were in full bloom, velvety cream petals crying out to be stroked with a fingertip, and the cherry trees had produced a riot of pink blossom.

Arewn heard a footfall behind her, and turned to see her husband.

“Estel!” She took two strides and the two of them wrapped their arms around each other. Aragorn bent his head and kissed her softly on the lips.

“You have finished so soon?”

“Alas, no. I have returned only long enough to collect some papers and have something to eat. Will you join me?”

“Gladly. Let us ask for food to be brought to the garden.” Arwen took him by the hand and led him back through her chamber and out down the sweeping staircase to the more public area of the palace and thence to the garden. They sat in the spring sunshine – pleasantly warm, not yet strong enough to drive them into the shade of the trees. Within moments the servants brought lunch – bread still warm, cheese, a soup made from early spring greens, pickles, cured ham, a few of the last of the apples, wrinkled but still sweet, a tiny bowl of the first of the wild strawberries.

“How goes the council meeting?” Arwen asked.

“This morning has been devoted to domestic affairs. Mostly the usual – yet more boundary disputes occasioned by the destruction of walls and fences upon the Pelennor, guildsmen unhappy about taxes, merchants unhappy about excise duties. This afternoon we move on to foreign affairs – relations with the Haradrim (and their relations with each other), and the ongoing issue of orcs in Ithilien.” Aragorn heaved a sigh.

“And what of the various members of your council?”

“Castamir is as obstructive as ever, Turgon is as boring as ever, and I have to report, currently, due to his mind being elsewhere, Faramir is about as much use as a fire-guard made of butter.”

Arwen laughed. “He has missed his shieldmaiden most grievously; is there any wonder his mind is elsewhere with his wedding but a fortnight away?”

Aragorn snorted. He wasn't going to waste any sympathy on his moonstruck steward. “Remind me again how long your father made us wait?”

Arwen reached across the table and took his hand. “But it was worth it, so very much so.” She stroked the back of his hand with her thumb. “May I sit in upon this afternoon's session? I should very much like to follow how affairs stand in the lands to the south and to the east.”

“Of course, my love. You are my queen. You rule with me. Your council will, as ever, be sage, and wise, and most gratefully received. And with Faramir's mind far, far away upon the green fields of Rohan, I need all the help I can get.”

“So, tell me the names and realms of the chief actors, so that I may better follow discussions.”

“The Haradrim first, I think. Envoys have come from three separate rulers: Arwaz, king of the desert nomads, Nadim, king of the coastal city state of Madruk, and Dawud, king of the mountain stronghold of Imbar. Ivriniel of Dol Amroth has been travelling extensively in the region…”

Arwen gave a knowing smile. “In her guise as eccentric elderly Gondorian lady of great curiosity and little sense.”

“Precisely. If only they knew.” Aragorn gave an answering smile. “From what she has pieced together, Dawud is very much in the mould of the scholar-kings of old. Interested in music, astronomy, philosophy.”

“Perhaps we should send your steward on a state visit.”

“Perhaps. Once he's no longer mooning over his shield maiden quite so badly.” Aragorn gave his head a small shake. He really was finding Faramir's current levels of distraction quite taxing; in a relatively short amount of time he had come to rely upon the younger man, and now found himself missing the Steward's insights into court politics. However, that was not really the subject he needed to discuss with his Queen, so he continued with his summary. “Dawud is also a shrewd tactician, and understands the strategic importance of his city-state. I remember my time in Harad in during the stewardship of Ecthelion.”

Arwen's eyes sparkled, and she took the king's hand for a moment. “You know, Estel, I think I should very much have liked to have met Captain Thorongil. I imagine him as a very dashing young man, brave, martial and with perhaps an exciting touch of the corsair about him.”

Aragorn raised his eyebrows slightly, assessing his wife's expression with some interest. “Perhaps later we can look at some of my journals from that time – but I fear we digress. To return to the matter in hand, Madruk is the only deep-water harbour on that stretch of coast for several hundred li in each direction. It also boasts a castle and citadel to rival Dol Amroth as a fastness – high upon the cliffs, offering an unrivalled vantage point from which to watch passing ships – mercantile, naval, and…” Aragorn flashed a knowing smile at Arwen, “piratical! It is essential, I deem, for the safe passage of trade along the coast that we forge some sort of alliance with Nadim.

“Now to the second of our three kings. Dawud seems, from all reports, to be a man of shrewd statecraft, and a reasonable one at that. His kingdom is of importance to us because, barring the near-impassible deserts to its west (controlled by Arwaz and a host of lesser nomadic princes), the mountain passes of Imbar are the routes to the lands further east, and untold riches of spices, silk, precious metals and gemstones.

“I think I mentioned that the merchants of Pelargir are complaining about duties and taxes, but their taxes are vital for the maintenance of the navy, under the able command of Imrahil. The best way I think to make them more accepting of the need for taxes is to increase their profits.”

Aragorn paused, and took a sip of the wine – watered for lunchtime consumption, then reached for another piece of bread and cheese. Arwen digested this information for a moment or two, then spoke.

“And what of the third of your Haradrim rulers, Arwaz of the desert nomads? I sense that he is perhaps less easy to negotiate with.”

Aragorn swallowed the bread, then replied. “Shrewd as ever, my love. Yes, on two accounts. First he is a warrior king, accustomed to strife. And second, because there is always internal strife between the various tribes that roam the desert. Often times, the overall ruler turns his gaze outwards, beyond the desert, aiming at territorial expansion to divert the energies of the various tribes into conquest and the spoils of war, and prevent them warring among themselves. Arwaz is no exception in using this strategy – which makes life for us difficult, because of constant incursions into the debatable lands, and also for the king of the mountains, Dawud, and to a lesser extent Nadim. Armed bands of nomads are one of the main routes by which booty from the corsairs plying out of Umbar make their way to a wider market, thus making piracy more profitable, and creating dangers for the lawful merchants plying their trade from Imbar, further to the south.”

Arwen frowned. “I am not sure precisely what you see me bringing to the discussions. As an Elf, I am somewhat detached from the minutiae of mortal interactions.”

Now it was Aragorn's turn to reach out and take her hand. “It is precisely that detachment which I shall find so valuable. As a Man, I am too close to the interactions, too drawn to be moved by emotion – whether it be anger, frustration, pity, even the ever-present urge to display one's own power (which no mortal, no matter how wise, is ever completely free from). You on the other hand will be able to weigh up words against body language, view interactions without taking sides. I shall look forward keenly to your interpretation of the afternoon's discussions, after the fact.”

Arwen rose from her chair and moved round the table to take a place on the low couch next to where Aragorn was sitting. She leaned against him and rested her head on his shoulder. 

“How long do we have before the meeting is due to start again?”

Aragorn tangled his fingers in her dark hair and kissed her brow. “Half a candle mark, I should think.”

“Then we had better use that time wisely and ensure that you start the meeting in a good humour, even if you do not finish it that way,” his queen replied, tilting her chin and leaning to meet his lips.

~o~O~o~

_Apologies for “recycling” characters from other stories – it's always hard to come up with new people so I tend to do this quite a lot. They won't necessarily be playing the same roles they have in previous stories (though Castamir is always a thorn in the side of both Faramir and Aragorn, and Turgon is always a crashing bore)._


	6. A quick study in love

While a Ranger of the North made her way towards Gondor, a Ranger of the South found himself desk-bound in Minas Tirith.

Faramir sat in his study, bright beeswax candles set around his desk. The study that had been his father's. It had taken a while to banish the ghosts. But now, his own books on the shelves, a map of Ithilien upon the wall behind him, visible from the armchair by the fire, a charcoal sketch of Éowyn on the wall nearest to him so that he only had to glance up to see her, he finally felt at home.

He should be working on state papers, he knew. But instead he had before him a battered leather folio, which had once held field orders during his time in Ithilien, but now held something immeasurably more precious – letters from Éowyn. In the months from September through to March, they had arrived at least once a fortnight, sometimes weekly – just as he had written to her. They contained a mixture of reminiscences of their time spent together, news of what she was doing in the Mark (he found he rarely thought of it as “Rohan” now, so profoundly had she altered the way he saw the world), her hopes for their future together. Just as his letters to her had contained fond reminiscences, news of the politics he found himself embroiled in, and the steady progress of the renovations of their estate in Ithilien. He picked up the heap and turned it over, so that he could start with the earliest letter.

_How strange our meeting was, the day after you had kissed me. You sought me out in the gardens of the Houses of Healing, and we sat upon a stone bench. Where our kiss the afternoon before had been fire and passion, I think both of us felt almost shy. So we sat, clasping hands, and in an odd sort of way our clasped hands functioned as a barrier – a chaperone almost. For we had to lean across them to kiss chastely, just our lips making slight contact._

Faramir stared at the words, written in her familiar, angular Cirth. He did remember that day, remembered it well. He'd been assailed by worry. Had he pressed her too hard? Had she accepted his hand out of desperation? The kisses that day had seemed so… polite, almost, so unlike the kiss the day before. He had known she had responded upon the walls, met passion with passion. But had that been a fleeting fancy, not passion, but simply relief and release on her part, the giddiness that comes with the eventual easing of a time of great fear and danger? 

It had taken time for that uncertainty to ease, time for her to unbend and relax into his embraces once more. But now, now he had less fear for the future, more confidence. He turned over another letter, then another, pausing at the third.

_Do you remember, my love, the dance Elfhelm held in the Rider's encampment upon the Pelennor? The wains had started to return to Minas Tirith, bearing back the women, the children, the old people who had been evacuated. And more wains brought provisions, from Lossarnach, from Ringlo Vale, even from as far as Dol Amroth. So there was food – the comfortable feeling of a full belly for the first time in weeks. And (for the young Riders) pretty girls a plenty._

_I took you down to the encampment, and we joined the festivities. And this was not your stately, courtly dances in the hall of Merethrond, where a lord takes his lady's hand, and, to the accompaniment of viols, walks 8 steps up the hall, turns, bows and receives an answering courtesy, then walks 8 steps back the way. These were country jigs and reels, to fife and tambour, where a man may take his woman by the waist and lift her off her feet and whirl her round till they are both breathless and he can steal a kiss._

_And you, my lord, were as quick a study in this as you are in all things..._

Yes, thought Faramir. This was indeed the moment which had set his fears to rest. His eye fell on the next sentence.

_For your arms about me were so wonderfully strong, the way you lifted me so effortless, your grace in dancing, the way your strength was tempered by a gentleness – all this seemed to make the blood run like fire in my veins, my head swim with desire, my body sway towards you like an iron needle to a lodestone…_

Oh yes, he remembered this. He had felt the same way himself – her body, strong and muscular, yet blessed with the most delightful curves, held tight within his encompassing hands, her cheeks flushed, her hair flying out around her like a shimmering veil of cloth-of-gold. After the dance, he had pulled her into the shadows at the side of the greensward set aside for the revelries. There he had kissed her once again, but there had been nothing reticent, nothing chaste about this kiss, nor about her response to it. Tongues had made darting, exploratory sallies, teeth had nipped gently against swollen lips. They had embraced, pressing the length of their bodies against one another. And oh, the sounds she had made. Soft moans of need, the same need he felt. 

He had no doubt that had he been a simple soldier, and she a merchant's daughter but recently returned to the city, they would have run, laughing, to the stand of trees nearby, and he would have tumbled her upon the soft grass, and then, a few months later as her belly began to swell, he would have married her, and they would have found modest lodgings in one of the outer circles of the city and begun to raise a family.

But alas, he had been raised a gentleman (however ungentlemanly had been his feelings at that moment), she was the sister of a king, and furthermore mid kiss, he had heard Elfhelm's voice calling through the darkness (as if from a slight distance, to give them fair warning of his approach): “My Lady Éowyn, my Lord Faramir, come and share this particularly fine bottle of wine Lord Faramir's uncle has had sent from Dol Amroth.” 

He was damned sure that Elfhelm had harboured a suspicion that Faramir's having been raised a gentleman might not prove sufficient protection for his lady's honour on such a heady night, filled with such sweet warmth and wine. Faramir, for all he felt a pang at the lost opportunity, had an inkling that Elfhelm's suspicions had probably been well placed.

And now a reverie about interruptions was itself interrupted; there was a sharp rap at the door. He gathered the parchments, placed them back in the folder, and shut it.

“Enter.”

The heavy oak door swung open to reveal his liege lord. Faramir leapt to his feet, and bowed, hand pressed to his breast. “Sire.”

“Please,” Aragorn replied, gesturing for him to sit once more. 

Faramir hesitated for a moment. “Is this a business visit, or a social visit?”

“A mixture of the two.”

“Perhaps then, we should take the more comfortable chairs,” his steward replied.

The two men took their places in the armchairs on either side of the fire, and Faramir rang for wine to be brought to them. Aragorn took a sip of wine.

“Your uncle's cellar, I'm guessing?” Faramir nodded his head. Aragorn gave a slight smile, then produced from within his robes a folded parchment. “And now, sadly, to business. I have received an intelligence report from your Aunt Ivriniel.”


	7. The Holy Woman

Ivriniel tapped her camel's flank firmly with the willow switch she carried. The beast made a grumbling noise, but began to amble up the side of the dune. Behind her, each on a camel, came her retinue – her lady's maid Erin, and her guard Aelfred. It was a small, and somewhat odd retinue. 

Erin was a farmer's daughter from Lebinnin. Her father having fallen in one of the early skirmishes of the war (a raiding party of Umbarians who had made their way up the Great River), she was forced to support her family any way she could. When Ivriniel had first met her, at the field of Cormallen just after the final victory, the most diplomatic description of her occupation would have been to say she was “living under the protection of” Ivriniel's nephew Erchirion. By an odd quirk of fate, the girl had ended up captaining a Rohirric team in that absurd ball game Ivriniel's brother and nephews were so fond of – and thanks to her able strategy, the Rohirrim had won. The princess may have thought the game itself was absurd; she did however put some faith in the old saw that the playing fields of Gondor were the nursery for the officers and statesmen of the future. The young woman's captaincy had spoke of intelligence and a cool head in a crisis, an impression further confirmed when Ivriniel engaged her in conversation the next day. So it was that, tired of flighty young maidservants who disappeared after a matter of months to easier employment in the white city, or into the arms of their sweethearts, Ivriniel had offered Erin a job.

Aelfred had been a rank-and-file Rider in one of the Rohirric Eoreds, and had also got drawn into the absurd game, on account of his skill at catching balls. He had watched Erin for the whole afternoon, his feelings moving from lust, through admiration, to something damn near love by the evening, when he'd managed to monopolise her during the country dances (even at the expense of a lost evening's earnings for her). Fairly soon after, her employment having shifted from lady of the night to lady's maid, he found Ivriniel offering him a position as a sell-sword, and having nothing to tie him to Rohan (his older brother would eventually inherit the tenancy of the family farmstead) and more than a passing fondness for Erin, he accepted her offer with alacrity.

He was having second thoughts. No self-respecting Rohir should have to ride one of these beasts. They smelled atrocious, their temper was even worse than their smell, and their gait the most extraordinary thing he'd ever encountered – front and hind legs on each side moved together, left legs, then right, then left, resulting in the most dreadful lurching motion. Poor Aelfred had spent the first four days of their desert adventure gripped by the pangs of the most terrible sea-sickness. And all this scores of miles from the sea, with not so much as a drop of water anywhere in sight. 

Ahead of him, Ivriniel's beast finally crested the top of the dune, and she surveyed the land spread out below. There, on the plains beyond the dunes, lay a splash of green betokening an oasis of sorts, and amid the green, a few dabs of colour which Ivriniel correctly guessed to be an encampment. But which of the warlords was it? And whose side would he prove to be on? 

Half the tribes took the side of Arwaz, the other half, the side of his second cousin and arch-enemy, Sharfath. Neither was particularly good news from Gondor's perspective, but the question which pre-occupied Ivriniel was this: which faction controlled access to the mountain passes? The only way to find out was to talk to people, and in order to do this, one had to have a pretext. When, a month earlier, she had visited Nadim's kingdom on the coast, she had stuck fairly close to the truth; she was an elderly noblewoman (accurate), with an interest in collecting and notating the music of far-flung places (not so accurate – as the oldest of her many nephews used to tease her, she was in fact fairly close to being tone deaf).

But Madruk was a civilised city-state, well known for its learning and culture, as well as for its commerce. The desert nomads, however, were a somewhat different kettle of fish (if one could talk of fish in a desert, Ivriniel mused). Music, beyond the wild desert tunes of pipes and drums, and the whirling dances the men performed to go with them, would not cut it as a pretext for her presence here. 

She needed another cover story. She recalled that the desert tribes were, in her previous experience, wildly superstitious and also strongly religious. And remarkably tolerant of other people's religions – not for them the idea of one, jealous god. It seemed to them eminently plausible that each tribe would have its own gods, to defend its own interests. And providing one was not at war with another tribe, then the gods that other tribes chose to follow were to be tolerated along with the tribe themselves. In a land so harsh, death came easily. One did not need to seek it out by courting conflict unnecessarily. Despite the warlike reputation of these nomadic tribes, they were (at least in Ivriniel's experience) quite judicious in their use of force.

So it was that Ivriniel decided superstition was her line of approach. She dug in her saddle bags and drew out a lengthy silk scarf of gold and red which she bound round her head. She dabbed marks of ochre upon her brow and cheeks and added many bangles and necklaces. The guise of “aged holy woman seeking truth in the desert” would serve her purpose. Quickly, she explained the ruse to Aelfred and Erin, and the three of them set off down the dune towards the oasis.

Some hours later, with Erin cross and grumpy, and Aelfred in a similar state, Ivriniel began to wonder about the wisdom of employing a couple who were romantically entwined. Where two random employees might deal with their grumpiness by lapsing into a stony silence, couples tended to snipe at one another. Rather late in the day to wake up to that potential problem, she reflected. However, before things got too heated, they entered a narrow canyon which led down between sandstone bluffs to the dried up river bed, and thence to the oasis. The palms rose round a muddy watering hole, behind which there clustered a group of brightly coloured tents. Camels cropped the meagre grass nearby, and smoke rose from cooking fires. The three of them rode slowly into the area between the trees where the tents had been set up.

Ivriniel tapped her camel, which grumbled once more, then did as it was bid and slid to its knees. Aelfred had already anticipated this and had hopped down from his beast in order to assist the princess dismount (his alacrity being as much driven by a desire to escape the swaying motions of his own hell-beast as for any chivalric reasons).

Their arrival occasioned much excitement; men with their heads swathed in scarves against the desert sun, and loose robes sweeping their ankles, emerged from the small encampment to investigate the strangers. They bore themselves with a war like air, and around their waists, silken belts into which were tucked the scabbards of swords, the hilts near their hands. In the dark entrances to the tents, peeping from behind curtains, Ivriniel could see the women and children of the tribe.

She put her palms together and bowed her head politely in the greeting acceptable in most of near Harad, before launching into what passed for a lingua franca in the region. She spoke the words of greeting common to the region.

“My humble greetings to your lord, and may the gods shine ever upon your dwellings, and may they favour you with plentiful water, bread, meat and the fruits of fertile oases.”

One man stepped out slightly in front of the others. He glanced sideways at a taller man, whose robe was made of perhaps slightly finer stuff than the others, and whose sword hilt was jewelled. The taller man gave an almost imperceptible nod, and permission granted, what Ivriniel assumed to be the tribe's spokesman replied. “And may the gods shine upon your journey, and bless you with the hospitality of strangers beneath the desert stars.”

Reassured, Ivriniel moved onto the next phrase in the ancient exchange of social obligations. “I and my companions beg shelter for the night, secure in the knowledge of your people's famed hospitality. And in return, we bring the blessings of the last of our water, the last of our bread, and some small coins in recompense.”

A harsh land, this, Ivriniel reflected. So harsh that an elaborate culture had sprung up, of mutual obligation and expectation and exchange, so that men might meet one another without fear of violence, and the desert traversed without fear of thirst or starvation.

Of course, violence still took place – but in much more subtle, underhanded ways. On the surface, the culture of hospitality without question or favour still held good.

In this respect, the nomads of the desert differed starkly from the nomadic herdsmen of Dunland. A fact of which (some several hundreds of miles to the north) the hobbits were blissfully unaware. However, there were many leagues to travel before those differences became apparent. 

At the same time, while the cultural differences which Ivriniel was wrestling with were obvious, those that Eomer was about to negotiate were all the harder because, on the face of things, the two countries – close allies during the recent war, linked by marriage, kinship and ancient treaties – should have been quite similar. But in various important respects, they stood in stark contrast to one another, offering a host of pitfalls for the unwary.


	8. The Lace goes South

Inzilbeth's services were not cheap (but then, Merry reflected, competence shouldn't come cheap), but nor were they extortionate. They spent a day in Bree collecting provisions: potatoes and salt pork for the early stages of the journey, salted beef and hard tack for when those would no longer keep, bags of oatmeal, a bag of tea, and (carefully packed in straw) two jars of honey. Inzilbeth had checked their abilities and (to Ruby's surprise, for she had not known her brother possessed this skill), Toby had turned out to be quite handy with a bow and arrow. Ruby realised it was probably best not to enquire where he had learned this skill, though she could make an educated guess. Inzilbeth had taken him to the armourer's workshop next to the town blacksmith's, and had used some of Merry's money to purchase a serviceable bow and more than a fair few arrows.

Merry had his short sword and horn. He had asked whether Ruby should be armed; Ruby felt her heart sink at the mere suggestion. She had therefore been relieved at Inzilbeth's answer.

“Not without years of training – the only thing likely to happen to an untrained maid with a knife is that her attacker takes it from her and possibly uses it on her. Better to know you can't fight and learn to read the signs that a situation is turning nasty, and know how to run before it's too late.”

They had gone to the butts for an hour after lunch, and Inzilbeth had declared herself well satisfied. Between his skill with a bow and her own, she had explained, they would be able to supplement the provisions with fowl and rabbits shot on the journey. The next purchase was an extra pony for the foodstuff. Without the efforts of the Black Riders to scatter all the decent beasts to the four winds, at least this time they'd had a choice of some reasonable animals and had picked a sturdy looking dun mare. Merry had been slightly surprised (given that Aragorn had led them off on foot) to discover that Inzilbeth had a horse, a well-made bay.

The next morning, after an early and extensive breakfast, they set off due south down the ancient Greenway. The first day's riding was relatively easy, for the surface was smooth turf, cropped close by the sheep, with only the gentlest of inclines. To their right lay the Barrow Downs, to their left the South Downs, but the strip of land between was flat and verdant. Nonetheless, Merry kept casting an anxious eye westwards, and Ruby recalled the evening she had spent at Brandybuck hall some months earlier, when Mr. Frodo Baggins had visited, and local families had been invited to hear him read aloud extracts from his _Red Book_. The tale of the ride across the Barrow Downs, the fog, and the Wights had been one of the parts of the evening which had most frightened her. With good reason, it would appear, if Merry's reaction was anything to go by.

“How long will the journey take us?” she asked Inzilbeth.

“Well,” the Ranger replied, pausing for a moment. “Let me think how to turn this into the reckoning used in the Shire. Bree to the ruins of Tharbad and the ford across the river is just over 200 Shire miles, Tharbard to the gap of Rohan another 250.”

She looked down from the heights of her perch on the bay horse – enormous to Ruby's eye, but in truth probably only about 15 hands, an ambler chosen for its solid gait and reliability on long journeys. Inzilbeth continued.

“A decent horse, with an experienced rider, used to the wilderness, can probably manage about 30 miles a day. Trained cavalry on a forced march can maybe keep up about 40 or 50 miles a day. But hobbit ponies? I think we should reckon 10 days to get to Tharbard, then at least another fortnight after that to get to the gap of Rohan.”

Ruby felt her heart sink. She had wanted an adventure, but this, she suddenly realised, might be more of an adventure than she'd bargained on. Why hadn't she just thought of trading in Bree, selling her wares on to passing caravans of merchants.

Merry chipped in at this point. “We travelled south over to the East, nearer the mountains, because we started from Rivendell. We struggled through the wilds of Eregion, and then (here he shuddered) went through the Mines of Moria. Not something I'd want to repeat, for all I hear that the Dwarves have now driven out the goblins and orcs. I'm glad we're taking this route. I looked at a map yesterday, and the Greenway stretches as far as Tharbad, then the North-South Road runs the next part of the way.”

Inzilbeth smiled faintly at this. “There hasn't been a road for many, many centuries. The only reason to head for Tharbad is that the rubble of the old bridge provides a ford across the River Greyflood. Well, a ford of sorts. We must hope for dry weather over the next week.”

Ruby could tell from Merry's face that this information had taken some of the wind out of his sails too. But he was always one to try to make the best of things.

“Still, hopefully there won't be orcs, even if there's no road.”

“Hopefully not too many,” Inzilbeth said.

~o~O~o~

Ruby was quite saddle sore by the time the oddly matched quartet of travellers began their descent towards the Greyflood some two weeks later. The winter had been an unusually wet one, and the causeway across the fens north of the river was swamped in places, so Inzilbeth had led them east onto higher ground, where a band of hills rose, then led to a plateau. They had finally begun to drop down from the plateau, cutting through another band of hills, heading back to the south west, to regain the river.

It was early in the morning, and Ruby's pony rounded the bend in the track, bringing into view a simply jaw-dropping sight. The ruin in front of her was unlike anything the hobbit had ever seen. Rising on an outcrop overlooking the wooded valley, were what had once been an outlook or perhaps temple of some sort. Three columns, elegantly fluted, rose above a circular base. Two of them still had their capitals – square blocks carved with elaborate leaves. The base rose from the surrounding greensward in three concentric steps, each of an easy height for a man to progress up in a stately fashion.

Inzibleth reined in her horse. “This was once the temple of Estë, beloved among the Valar as the healer of hurts and weariness.”

“Is she any good with saddle sores?” asked Toby.

Ruby shushed him. Inzilbeth had by now got the measure of each of her three hobbit companions, and merely gave a wry smile. In all honesty, there wasn't a lot of Toby to get the measure of – he was uncomplicated, and at times, the Dúnedaneth found herself thinking (and chiding herself for thinking), he almost bordered on simple. However, right now all three hobbits needed some guidance for the next stage of the track.

“The road winds downhill through the trees from here. Pay attention – there are some steep drops at the edge of the path. It should take us about an hour to reach the valley bottom and the river crossing.”

As promised, the track was exposed and at times quite frightening. Ruby adopted the simple technique of shutting her eyes and trusting to her pony's sense of self-preservation. In between hairpin corners, she sneaked looks at the view, which was indeed spectacular after the dank fens, then the bleak moorland plateau they had travelled across for so many days. The hills were covered with forest – mixed pines and deciduous trees, a patchwork quilt of different shades of green, with occasional purples and bluish-blacks from copper beeches and acer. Every so often they would come across fruit trees bursting into blossom, and the chestnuts were tentatively putting forth their candles of flowers.

Lower still the track led them, and Ruby began to catch snatches of the splash of water – the river ran quickly in places in this valley. She swallowed. Fording a river. She wasn't sure about this, not sure at all. One thing was an improvement, however: the gradient of the path had become noticeably shallower. She mentioned her fears to Inzilbeth.

“That water – sounds like the river's powerful strong down there.”

“It is that,” the Ranger agreed. “But it flattens out as it reaches the plains, and by the time we regain the fen causeway, four or five leagues hence, it is broad and sluggish.”

Reassured, Ruby settled herself on her pony and made the best of the gentler track ahead of them. Every so often, between the trees, Ruby caught glimpses of stone structures covered by ivy. At first she thought they were old dry-stone walls, or maybe shepherd's huts, but the more she saw, the more she realised that this was in fact the remains of a sizeable city. Furthermore, the stonework was sophisticated, way beyond even the mellow gables of Brandybuck Hall (which remained, within her mind's eye, her model for a “proper, grand house”). Every so often she would see something that was recognisably pillars from a portico, or, draped in ivy, a statue of a warrior or nymph, features long since washed away by rain, maybe missing an arm.

Inzilbeth followed her gaze, and nodded. “Tharbad was once a great fortified city of the Númenóreans. They used the forests to the south to build their ships. Leaving the land stripped of its trees is one of the things the Dunlendings still hold as a historic wrong done against their people. One of many reasons they don't like my people.”

Ruby shivered. “But we can avoid their settlements, can't we?”

“Alas, no. There are few fixed settlements among the Dunlendings. For the most part they are nomadic tribes who roam the land between the Greyflood and the Gap of Rohan. They are not well disposed towards strangers.”


	9. The uses of lace

In anther wood, the Firien wood, much further south, Éowyn contemplated her current state of affairs. She was struck by the contrast between this journey and the last time she had travelled south on this road. No desperate speed, hard rations and an overwhelming need for secrecy (plus a hobbit bouncing behind her like an unusually large saddle bag). This time she had a veritable retinue: sergeant at arms, two guards, house-keeper to be, maid. Not to mention an Eored, commanded by Elfhelm, plus a brother who was a king. And attended by several lords of the Mark and their ladies – and their marriageable daughters – there seemed to have been an interesting tendency among the men who put themselves forward for this state visit to have daughters of an appropriate age. Éowyn couldn't decide whether this was because they were dangling after her brother, or hoped to find rich Gondorian husbands in Minas Tirith.) 

The previous evening, a dispatch rider from Gondor had intercepted their procession and delivered letters. She smiled. Faramir had written to her despite the fact that she was to see him in a week's time. Hilde, Elfhelm's wife, had been very tickled by this. “Good to see the man's keen. Elfhelm tells me you've picked yourself a good one.”

It had taken her the best part of a candle to read the letter in its entirety. With a fond smile, she reflected on how unexpected (in a pleasant way) it was that he could find the time to write such long missives. Did the man have nothing better to do? Could it be that Aragorn was not working him hard enough? It seemed unlikely. She knew from her time in Minas Tirith that Faramir had a tendency, if anything, to work far too hard. Many was the evening when she'd had to interrupt his work to make him dine. And she had harboured suspicions that once he had walked her home to the Houses of Healing each night, he had on many occasions returned to his papers afterwards. 

The letter was typical Faramir, somehow, and the thought warmed her heart. It started with a run-down of the political machinations in Gondor. She now had the names of the various protagonists committed to memory. Hurin of the Keys – a stickler for court protocol and legal precedent and doing things just so. Heart in the right place, loyalty beyond question, but sometimes annoying in his inability to accept that sometimes change might be a good thing. Castamir – court protocol and legal precedent to be invoked when it suited his purposes, ignored when it didn't. Loyalty… not beyond question. But very careful to skirt the right side of showing any dissent publicly. Firm ally of Faramir's late father, therefore rather inclined not to rate Faramir. Too full of himself to realise that this opinion was returned, with interest. Turgon. Elderly. Crashing bore. Tended to toady to Castamir, because he hadn't the wit to realise that the arrival of the king meant the political landscape had changed.

The letter had also included sketched plans for their house in Emyn Arnen – this exchange had been going on for some time. He would send her his ideas, she would reply with suggestions, he would tweak the plans. One thing on which they were agreed was that there would be no need for separate bed chambers for the master and mistress of the house; in the finest tradition of the Mark, they would have a single chamber with a large bed. She had given rather a lot of thought to activities within this bed – more thought, she was sure, than her brother would think proper. But at least in her case it stopped at thought, unlike Éomer. She gave a quiet snort.

Mind you, the final few paragraphs of Faramir's letter hinted – in fact, did rather more than hint – that he had also been giving a lot of thought to their marital bed. She smiled. Her betrothed really was a master word smith – a few well chosen phrases could make her feel as if her insides were melting. In a good way… 

This happy train of thought was interrupted by the arrival of Hilde by her side.

“Lady Éowyn,” she said, with a broad smile. Éowyn blushed; Béma, could the woman read minds? Elfhelm's wife gave her a knowing look, but refrained from comment.

“So, you have the sword?” she asked instead.

“Yes,” Éowyn answered. “Some of Grimbeorn's finest work. A fuller the length of the blade, perfectly weighted, and a beautifully wrought basket in the style of a Gondorian fencing rapier round the hilt. It took me ages to try to explain what I meant by that – I ended up having to make a model with reeds – the nearest I've got to basket work in years,” she added, with a grin. “Mind you, it's such a good idea. It gives excellent protection to the swordsman's hand.”

“So what's the idea behind it?”

“It's a tradition in Gondorian noble families. The bride gives her groom a sword to be held in trust for their first born son. The idea is that a really elaborate sword increases your chances of having a son first – nine months to the day is considered ideal.”

Hilde gave a snort of laughter. “Babies will be what they'll be. And first babies, they'll come when they want – all the others take nine months.”

Éowyn gave an answering laugh, then quickly glanced around to see if anyone was within earshot. “Chance would be a fine thing,” she said, ruefully. “Between your husband being on hand to chaperone me, Faramir's sense of honour, and Éomer returning from Cormallen, I can report that my first will take at least nine months.” She gave a slightly sad sigh.

“Cheer up, not long now,” said Hilde. “The dwarf prince came to Edoras before you left, didn't he?” 

“Yes, he had wedding gifts too – a pair of jewelled daggers, with mithril filigree, one for each of us. They are truly beautiful. And a promise to send his finest locksmiths to Emyn Arnen to make the fixings for our new front door.” There was more, but Éowyn didn't feel she ought to mention it to Hilde. She got the feeling that it was intended as a private gift – a pair of fine mithril vambraces for her to deliver to Prince Legolas on Gimli's behalf.

She knew that Legolas had now arrived in Ithilien, with a group of Silvan Elves (and a few Sindar – Faramir had explained the difference in one of his letters, but the precise details hadn't lodged in her memory). The Elves had begun to build their own dwellings in woods some two score leagues from Emyn Arnen. It comforted her to think that she and Faramir would not be single-handedly responsible for the safety of Ithilien.

“My Lady?”

Éowyn suddenly realised Hilde had been talking while she'd been musing, and she'd missed what the other woman had said.

“I'm sorry, I was wool gathering.”

Hilde gave an indulgent smile. “Easily done with only a week till your wedding. Which dress did you choose in the end?”

“The green one with the white silk over-dress.”

“I'm sure you'll look lovely. You must have spent so much time on choosing the right one.”

“Truthfully? Not much. I've been much more concerned with the design of the sword, and the plans for our house that Faramir's been sending to me. And about choosing suitable brood mares and stallions for stud once we have our estate in Emyn Arnen.”

Hilde laughed. “Perhaps I should have said _most brides spend so much time choosing the right one_. It does not come as any great surprise that you have not.”

“I did,” said Éowyn with a faint blush, “Devote quite a lot of thought to the choice of nightgown for my wedding night...”


	10. A funny sort of stag weekend

As Éowyn made her way south through the Firien wood, her betrothed made his way through the woods of Ithilien in the company of an elf.

Aragorn had finally reached the end of his patience with his moonstruck steward and suggested the Prince of Ithilien's time might be better spent preparing his estate for the arrival of his bride. Faramir had indeed returned to Ithilien, though rather than devote his time to the rebuilding of the house at Emyn Arnen (which was in the capable hands of his architect and a team of master builders) he had instead been drawn into patrolling the northern reaches of Ithilien with Legolas.

Which is how he came to find himself crouched uncomfortably in some laurel bushes, flanked by Anborn and Mablung. Somewhere above his head, in the mix of oak, beech, chestnut and ancient pines that covered the flanks of the mountains were Legolas and his companions, Miriel, Meren and Coruen. They had been tracking an orc troop for several hours now, and had started (the last time Legolas had dropped back down to the ground) to discuss how they might engage in battle, when their plans had been pre-empted by the orcish band encountering a rival tribe. The elves and men had watched from a distance as the orcs had engaged in a bloody battle, hacking and stabbing one another with a variety of crudely forged swords, halberds, knives and pikes. 

Miriel, the one female elf among the group, appeared behind them, moving with the usual stealth of her kind.

“Lord Legolas says this is our opportunity to dispatch the stragglers as they try to escape through the woods. We will out-flank them on the left – he asks that you take the right flank.”

Faramir nodded, then gestured to his two Rangers. Moving surprisingly silently (even to elvish ears) the three of them spread out through the undergrowth, their dull green cloaks and brown tunics and leggings blending into the background. The close proximity of the tree trunks to one another and the thick foliage made arrows an unappealing option, so instead Faramir drew his sword and waited, motionless against the trunk of a large oak.

He didn't have to wait for long. A pair of orcs came running – an awkward, clumsy gait, particularly the taller of the two – heading away from the fighting as fast as their legs would carry them. Suddenly the tall one lost its footing and started to roll down the bank towards him. 

To Faramir's amazement, the other gave a cry of what sounded like despair, or perhaps fear. The note in its voice struck Faramir as surprisingly… human, somehow. It launched itself pell-mell down the steep slope, seemingly without a care for its own safety, stones and twigs scattering beneath its feet. The tumbling orc, meanwhile, crashed through bramble, bracken and (incongruously for a creature of darkness) clumps of bluebells before coming to rest in a holly bush a mere two or so paces from Faramir.

Yellow eyes glinted in the mottled shadows cast by the trees. There was a gasp from the creature as it realised it was face to face with a man, brandishing a shining steel sword. 

“Tark!” The orc's voice was at one and the same time a warning to its comrade and held a note of panic the like of which Faramir had never heard from one of its kind. The second orc skidded to a halt immediately behind it, steadying itself on a low branch. It too gave a growling cry, but again imbued with a note of desperation. It scrabbled at its belt, and drew a knife, but (despite the gnarled hand and sharp claws which held it) the blade wavered slightly in its grasp. The knife, Faramir realised, looked rather more like a kitchen knife than anything intended for combat.

It spoke, a torrent of angry snarling noises which barely sounded like language. The words, if that's what they were were harsh, horrible, ugly. There was one sound which seemed to recur - “shauk”. As the orc uttered it, it placed a hand on the other where it lay in the mud, waving the knife frantically.

Faramir drew himself up, holding his sword at the ready, and began to advance. There was still something he couldn't put a finger on, something out-of-kilter about the scene before him. If he didn't know better, didn't know these creatures for the embodiment of evil that they were, he could have sworn the second of the two orcs was defending its prone companion. He looked more closely. Were those… was the orc in the mud… no… could it be? He realised that the orc which had lost its footing was a female!

The female orc opened its mouth, then its eyes seemed to fix on something over Faramir's shoulder, and they widened with shock. Faramir risked a quick glance over his shoulder and saw a much larger orc bearing down on him. No issues with reading this one's expression – it was filled with the brutal animal hatred Faramir associated with its kind. Cursed cock of a kinslayer! Now he was the one who was outflanked – two of them (albeit rather feeble looking) in front of him, one (much more threatening) behind. He decided the one behind posed more of a threat, and wheeled to meet it, just in time. 

His sword met the orc's, blades locking near the hilt for a moment. Faramir had to dodge backwards as he realised the beast carried a short dagger in its other hand, and combat at close quarters risked a knife in the guts. The orc swung at him, a wild, scything stroke which should have been easy to parry, except that Faramir stood awkwardly on a stone hidden amidst the brambles, and lurched to his right. The blade whistled past his left ear. He struggled to regain his balance, heart in his mouth. Was this how it would end? Having survived Nazgul, poisoned darts, a fiery death, only to be unceremoniously dispatched in a minor skirmish in the woods?

There was a dull thud and the orc pitched backwards, carried by the momentum of the arrow that struck it in the chest, punching straight through its leather surplice and chain mail.

Faramir let out a long, shaky breath. Relief flooded through him. There was a quiet thump as someone dropped to the ground beside him – he glanced sideways to see Legolas retrieving another arrow.

“That was a close-run thing, my friend,” the elf said.

Faramir nodded and turned to see what had become of the other two orcs – but they had, seemingly, vanished into the undergrowth as if they had never been. He could see broken twigs and plant-stems bent in two – they would not be hard to track. But before he could suggest this, Legolas called out.

“Yrch!”

Faramir wheeled to see a group of five more orcs, battle-scarred but still dangerous-looking, bearing down on them. Again, the murderous intent of this particular group was clear on their faces. He and Legolas sprang forward. Unlike the orcs so far, these wore crude plate armour. The elf, realising his arrows were unlikely to penetrate, drew his long knife. For a few moments it was a close run thing – a blur of blades and the clang of steel on steel. This time it was Legolas' turn to be hard pressed. Faramir dispatched two orcs in short order, but the other three moved with much greater coordination and launched themselves at the elf as one. A blade came perilously close to Legolas' neck, and it was only at the last moment that Faramir managed to bring his sword to bear and parry the stroke.

Faramir used the orc's clumsy backswing as an opening; he managed to stab the point of his sword up under the armpit, in the unprotected area where the breast-plate stopped. The orc's chain-mail should have stopped the stroke, but it appeared to have suffered in an earlier battle.

Blood ran freely, but Faramir wasn't naive enough to think it was a killing blow. Panting, and on the back foot once more, he found himself pressed backwards towards the trunk of a large oak tree. His mind ran through the possibilities at lightning speed. Feinting sideways, he drew the stroke, but ducked a fraction of a heart-beat before it landed. The orc's blade bit deep into the tree trunk, and just for an instant the creature struggled to get it free. Only an instant, but enough time for Faramir to drive the point of his sword into its throat, just above the gorget.

He turned to see Legolas slit the throat of another of the beasts, propelling the dying orc backwards with a well-placed foot. It lurched into the last of its companions. Faramir sliced down towards the orc's neck as it too stumbled, but the orc rolled out of the way. It was left to Legolas to finish it, with a slash behind the orc's knee to sever the tendons and disable it, then another slice across the beast's throat.

“Thank you, my friend,” Legolas said. “I was hard-pressed for a moment there.”

He cleaned his blade on a patch of moss. Faramir did the same with his sword, before returning it to its sheath. 

“What now?” the elf continued. “Pursue the two that escaped?”

“No, I think they pose less threat than the warrior band we encountered. Regroup and chase down the main group,” Faramir repled. He raised his hand to his lips and gave one of the bird-calls the Rangers used to signal. Legolas likewise called out quietly, and soon the other Rangers and elfs were assembled together. Anborn led the way up hill – the main group of orcs were not difficult to track, having hacked their way through foliage and undergrowth in their progress.


	11. All Animals are Equal

From a thicket slightly downhill, two pairs of yellow eyes watched the retreating figures.

“D'you fink we're safe?” asked the taller one.

“For the time being. I fink they're going off after Shagrat and 'is gang.”

“Can't say I'd be sorry to see Shagrat piked through the guts. Even if they are Tarks and Golugs.”

“Yeah,” said the smaller one, giving a toothy grin. “Never did like the bugger.”

“Me neither. Bit handsy, if yah know what I mean.” 

“Yeah, me sis said the same fing. And worse 'n that. Tell you what, if I ever gets the chance to do for 'im from behind when 'e don't know I'm coming, I'll do fer 'im meself. Won't need no Tarks or Golug-hai.”

The other nodded her approval, then rested a clawed paw on her belly. “What now? We need to find shelter. I'm getting close to me time.”

The little orc moved closer and (in a move that would have startled the “Tarks” with its incongruity) gave the bigger one a hug. “They've gone uphill towards the north. We'll head diagonally uphill in t'other direction. Maybe find ourselves a nice cosy cave.”

“That'd be good.”

The two orcs melted into the undergrowth.

Several hours later they did find a “cave”. It only just made it into the definition on a technicality. Really, it was more of a hole beneath an overhanging muddy bank, its roof held up with a lattice of interlaced tree roots, but it seemed sound enough, not about to fall in as far as the smaller orc could tell. He settled his companion down on the earthy floor, then headed outside. Twenty minutes later he came back with several armfuls of bracken, then, after a similar interval, several more.

“There you go, Vashtath,” he said, dropping the greenery in a heap on the floor. “I'll see if I can find us some food, right?”

“Nice one, Shaznag. Be careful out there, okay?” The larger orc set to, piling the bracken into the corner. She burrowed into it as if nesting, then let out a grateful sigh (which would have scared any nearby Tarks half to death, since the act of sighing also involved baring her very sharp, pointed teeth).

Shaznag reappeared not long afterwards with a pheasant and a rabbit, which he proceeded to pluck and skin respectively. He hacked them in half. 

“Want me to start a fire?” Contrary to popular Mannish opinion, like many orcs, Shaznag actually preferred his food cooked.

“Nah, I'm ravenous. And I'm a bit worried about the smoke.”

“Right you are,” said Shaznag, and chopped the carcases in half, giving the slightly larger portions to Vashtath, who demolished them in short order. “Are you getting your pains yet?” he added.

“Only the kind of wussy little practice ones – an' I've been having them for weeks now.”

The little orc nodded and went out to get more bracken. Eventually, as the sun set in the far, far distance, the two of them settled down in their little earthy den, Shaznag snuggled against Vashtath's back to keep her warm.

“It's weird, like,” he murmured. “Not havin' the Voice in your 'ead all the time.”

“Yeah. Weird, but better. Kind of nice. Just getting to do your own thing.”

Shaznag snuggled against her. He thought, but didn't say, _till the bloody Tarks catch up with us_. He had a vague memory, from back before he got pressed into service by the Voice of his ma saying to him, way back when he was not much more than a whelp, _No point wishing for trouble before it comes looking for you._

The pallid dawn light crept into the little den and woke both of them early. They stretched and yawned (more fearsome fangs on display). Having checked that Vashtath still wasn't having any pains yet, Shaznag set off hunting.

~o~O~o~

The word had got round that Ithilien was gradually being cleansed of its foul pestilence (and, equally importantly, that the new Steward, now prince of the region, had revoked his father's edict that interlopers into the territory should be summarily executed).

Geren had been in the area for about a month now. He'd adopted an old woodsman's hut. Half the roof timbers were gone – burnt out in some long-ago skirmish – and all the thatch. But he'd jury rigged a shelter with some sail-cloth he'd brought up on the mule he'd bought down in Harlond. He'd patched up the walls, and later in the summer, he'd try to fix up some sort of roof with bark shingles to see him through the winter. 

But before he did that, the more important thing was to get started with some livestock. He had got things ready, using ash saplings to make a rough-and-ready fence and pen. A trip to the nearest town on the other bank of Anduin had brought him three ewes, a tup and a piglet, which he'd carefully brought up the hill a handful of miles a day, so as not to tire them out. He'd been a shepherd before the war, and like all shepherds, he knew that sheep had a thousand and one ingenious ways of dying, usually in some sort of spectacularly gruesome and smelly manner, the instant their owner took his eye off the ball for an instant.

Despite the known death wish of sheep, he liked this new, gentle pace of life. He'd not had his own place before. Just been a tenant on a farm, with a tiny one-room tied cottage. The farmer's local lord had in turn been ordered by his liege lord to gather up pikesmen for the defence of the Rammas Echor, which is how he'd found himself with a chain mail tunic, leather hauberk, ill-fitting helmet and crudely forged pike, in the middle of hell on earth. Somehow, he'd survived, and been paid off with a modest purse for taking (however unwillingly) the Steward's castar. Now he just wanted a bit of peace and quiet, and Ithilien seemed to offer it – or at least this stretch, comfortably far away from the Black gates and orcs, he hoped, and comfortably far away from the Steward's estates to the south and the threat of some bailiff wanting to see title deeds for the land he was squatting on.

He figured it was what, two, three generations since anyone had lived in these ruins. He hoped there were no decent records, and that possession was nine tenths of the law… And if that wasn't the case, he hoped he'd have a good few years here, raising sheep, selling wool and building up a bit of savings for if he had to move on.

Today, the sheep were safely penned. To the best of Geren's knowledge, there was no hemlock or deadly nightshade within range of their greedy little teeth. It was too early in the season for blowflies, but just in case he'd shorn them and made sure their back ends were particularly clean. Some day they would die, but (recalling the king's rousing words before the Black Gates) today was not that day. With an easy, hillman's stride, Geren made his way up hill, his dog dancing round his heels. 

He'd just seen a couple of plump partridges and was in the process of fitting a bolt to his crossbow when a faint movement in the undergrowth caught his eye. He turned sharply, facing downhill. Nothing there. But he couldn't shake the feeling that someone or something was watching him.

Then, suddenly, from somewhere behind him, an animal howl of pain rent the air. He wheeled back again, trying to work out where the sound was coming from. Only to feel a sharp blow to the small of his back which sent him tumbling to the ground. Something leapt over his head and started to run up hill. Rolling over, he caught a glimpse of the creature as it shoved the undergrowth out of its way. An orc!

In a split second, he decided it had to be pursued. He couldn't have orcs this near his cottage – the building wasn't secure, and the buggers would rustle his sheep. Grabbing his cross bow from where it had fallen, he set off in hot pursuit.

The creature was fast, but Geren's legs were longer. Gradually he began to gain on it. He was within about 10 feet when the beast crested the lip of a small dell. He heard the slithering of leaves and twigs as it slid down a bank just the other side of the rise. Cautiously, he peered over into the hollow, wondering if the orc was a lone stray, or whether there were more of its kind.

The orc stood in front of a burrow or badger sett or something. It was waving a short, broad-bladed sword, rather inexpertly as far as Geren could tell (not that his brief and inglorious career as a pikesman had given him much of an insight into the finer points of swordsmanship). A string of angry – and fearful – words came from it, but none of them made any sense to the shepherd. Then another noise, half howl, half wail, came from within the burrow. The orc glanced over its shoulder.

It hesitated for a moment or two, as if caught between two equal unwelcome options, then lowered its sword and dropped to hands and knees, crawling into the hole.

Geren followed, crossbow at the ready, still thinking of future sheep rustling. Then stopped in his tracks.

There were two of them… and the new addition was unmistakably half way through giving birth. And bellowing with pain as it… she… did so. She muttered something in that hideous tongue of theirs. Geren didn't understand a word of it, but Shaznag did.

“The whelp. I fink this one's stuff sideways. It's trying to get out arm first.” Then her eyes focussed on a spot behind her shauk's shoulder. She swore, vehemently. “There's a Tark behind you.”

Shaznag rolled round in the confined space. He struggled to remember the handful of words of common tongue he'd picked up. “Stop. Not hurt. Not hurt… shauk. Please.”

To his dying day, Geren would never be able to work out why he did what he did next. Perhaps it was just that even as a tiny boy, following the sheep from pasture to pasture, he'd never been able to bear to watch an animal suffer. He laid the crossbow to one side, and crawled into the den, gently shoving the first of the orcs to one side.

And another thing he couldn't work out – why he kept talking to the female orc, even though she couldn't understand him. “There lass. Can I have a look? Sorry about this, I know you don't like this, but it's stuck. The baby's stuck...” And he did what he'd do with a lamb coming out with a leg where it shouldn't. Did his best to shove the limb back up the birth passage and turn the infant round. To his amazement it worked – he managed to get it tucked out the way, and with a slither, the little… what would you call it? Orcling? Anyway, it squelched onto the mud floor of the den, where the orcess scooped it up and tucked it to her breast.

Geren backed up to where the other orc crouched, curled up beneath the roof of laced tree roots. 

“You,” he said, poking the orc in the chest, “Not kill my sheep. Understand.”

The little orc, looking very bemused, nodded.

~o~O~o~

_AN: I've always had a soft spot for that sub-genre of fanfiction which deals with what happened next to the orcs, once magic and sheer psychological terror weren't there to keep them in line and doing their masters' bidding. Shaznag and Vashtath were a couple of orcs who wandered into my Groundhog GDIME fic, and I thought they needed a bit more love and attention._

__Orcish:_   
_Tark – man (literally man of the West)._   
_Golug – elf_   
_Golug-hai – elven kind_   
_Shauk – mate._   
_


	12. Éomer all at sea

Éomer stood at the side of the elegant room. The only positive feeling he could come up with towards the present occasion was to reflect that at least it wasn't a ball. He had been to one of those, earlier in the week, and it had been beyond his worst imaginings. At least Amrothos and Erchirion had been on hand to try to steer him through it, but two things had become rapidly apparent. The first was that the mothers of Gondor had, as one, each decided that only her own daughter was worthy of becoming Queen of the Riddermark. The second was that he was hopelessly out of his depth (to borrow a maritime metaphor from Erchirion) in fending off boarders.

This gathering was hard to categorise. It took place in a large assembly room in one of the fashionable inner circles of Minas Tirith (not the innermost, where the Royal Palace and Steward's Palace lay, nor the next circle out which included, among other dwellings, the town-house of the Prince of Dol Amroth). Still, while not the innermost of circles (how odd these detailed gradations in social standing were, Éomer thought), it was far removed from the hustle, bustle and hoi poloi of the lower, outer circles. As an event, it was most peculiar; it involved no food, no drink, no dancing. It seemed to consist solely of people milling around the large room chattering to one another. Men in late middle age held forth about military strategy, despite not having been near a battlefield themselves within a score of summers. Women in late middle age discussed the latest fashions and who was marrying whom, despite being far past the age of marriage themselves. The young women bobbed around in the wake of their mothers, wearing the aforementioned fashions, but strangely tongue-tied. The young men fidgeted round the edge of the room, looking as though they would kill for a game of cards or a glass of brandy.

All in all, it was hell.

The only people in the room who looked happy were his sister and her betrothed. The Steward and his White Lady stood in an alcove at the side of the room, her hands clasped tenderly within his, smiling at each other. Éomer shook his head. He supposed weddings were nice enough, especially when the two protagonists were clearly head over heels, but he was feeling curmudgeonly today. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a middle aged lady and her daughter (of some wealth, judging by the elaborate hair ornaments) talking to a middle aged man who nodded in Eomer's direction. The King of Rohan's heart sank; time to beat a hasty retreat.

It was of course far harder to disappear into a crowd when one was half a head taller than most of those present, and strikingly blond among a sea of raven hair. But years of negotiating a court controlled by Grima Wormtongue had taught Éomer a thing or two about subterfuge. He headed straight for the Rohirrim contingent. Éothain and Elfhelm were of a similar height, as were their lieutenants. He spent just a few moments moving, seemingly at random, among them, before slipping (he hoped) unnoticed through the glazed doors which led into the garden courtyard behind the assembly room.

These courtyard gardens were, to Éomer's mind, one of the few things he truly liked about this city of stone. True, the buildings were impressive – not just architecturally, but (now he had to worry about things like streets turning into sodden mires in winter, and overflowing drainage channels) as feats of civil engineering. But he didn't warm to the place. Far too cold. Far too controlled. The gardens, on the other hand, were one of the few oases of calm and natural beauty. The plants themselves were things of wonder. Gondor was sufficiently further south than the Mark that all sorts of flowers which would not survive a northern winter thrived and blossomed here. And the design of the gardens was wonderful.

In a city where everyone lived cheek by jowl, the gardens were planned to have curving pathways, little nooks and niches, hidden fountains, screened bowers – an illusion of privacy in a city which had none. (And if Erchirion and Amrothos's tales were anything to go by, where everyone knew everyone else's business and gossip was not merely a pastime, but political currency).

This garden was a particular delight. Bougainvillea ran riot against the stone walls, sparkling purple gems against the gleaming sunlit stone. Several trees cast semi-shade upon a path leading through a stone archway to a central area. Éomer could hear the splash of a fountain, and followed the sound. He ducked to get beneath a low-hanging branch decked with blossom, and stepped round the trunk of the tree, only to find himself on a collision course with a young woman.

He stopped short, then stepped back. She in turn gave a start, then murmured “Your pardon, sir.”

“The fault is entirely mine, my lady,” Éomer answered. “I should take more care to look where I am going.”

The young woman graced him with a small smile – a tight, half smile, Eomer noted. Then her features settled into a guarded, slightly sad expression. In an instant he noted the pale, almost sallow complexion, the dark rings round her eyes, the slightly hollowed cheeks. She would have been pretty, even striking, he thought, were it not for… He didn't quite know how to describe it. It wasn't that she looked ill. More that she seemed to carry the weight of the world with her. No, not of the world. He recognised that haunted look. The weight of war.

He was about to bow politely and make his excuses – she clearly wished to be alone – when Amrothos came barrelling round the corner.

“Éomer, there you are. I've found a fresh bottle… Oh!” He stopped short, taking in the woman before him. “I didn't know you knew my sister.”

“We've only just happened upon one another by chance,” said the woman, her voice a melodious contralto. “Perhaps you would care to introduce us.”

Amrothos seemed slightly lost for words for a moment, then recollected himself. “Éomer, my sister Lothíriel. Lothi – King Éomer of Rohan.”

Princess Lothíriel dropped a deep courtesy. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, sire. However, I rather imagine you would sooner share a bottle with my brother, so I will retire.”

Amrothos put a hand on her arm. “Nonsense, sister dear. It'll do you good to share a goblet with us, take you out of yourself and brighten you up a bit. And,” he added hastily, “Éomer, you can relax. Lothi is still in her widow's weeds, so you're quite safe.”

Éomer winced at Amrothos' spectacular lack of tact. Not that Éomer was noted for his sensitivity (as his sister would have testified) but even he wouldn't have put his foot in it quite so spectacularly. Quickly, he said, “Pray, madam, do not feel you have to stay on my account. If you are tired, I shall quite understand if you do not wish to spend time in the company of a couple of coarse soldiers such as ourselves.”

“I'm sure you do yourself a disservice,” said Lothíriel, and settled herself on the bench next to her brother. But there was a slightly tight expression on her face that made him think she was steeling herself to be polite. Still, it made sense of the haunted look on her face. He looked again more closely and realised that she was much, much younger than he had at first realised. Just that the look of sadness on her face had given it a look beyond her years.


End file.
